Hangman's root : a China Bayles mystery

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  "I see," I said.

  "He was afraid Harwick would kill him if he told," Mrs. Scott broke out. "He was afraid we might be killed. The whole family!"

  "Harwick was too yellow for that." Her husband's voice was disgusted. "But Tad was just a kid. He couldn't know that the bastard was full of bluff."

  I looked at them. "After Tad told you, what did you do.^"

  "We took the boy to a therapist," Charles Scott said. His mouth was twisted into a bitter smile, showing chalky teeth stained with nicotine. "Shrinks know everything, don't they? This one did. My fault. I shouldn't have listened. I should have trusted Tad. I should have done what was right and screw the rest of it."

  "No, Charlie," Anne Scott said, her voice softening. She put her hand on her husband's knee. "It wasn't your fault." She took up the story. "The therapist—Dr. Rupert—advised us not to press charges. He said it was Tad's word against Harwick's, and that the trial would be torture for Tad. For all of us. He thought it

  would be better to work out Tad's problems in therapy, rather than the courts." She shook her head. The tears were coming, unchecked. She was almost incoherent. "I think Dr. Rupert thought Tad was lying. He was always an imaginative boy, making up stories about everything. Anyway, Dr. Rupert kept saying he was getting better."

  Charlie Scott blinked and pressed his wife's shoulder, his mouth quivering. "But he wasn't. He was getting more and more depressed. His schoolwork went to pieces. He gave up his music, tennis, friends. A year after Harwick left, he committed suicide."

  My stomach tightened. "How?" I asked, but I already knew the answer.

  Anne Scott turned her face into her husband's yellow shirt. "He hung himself," she whispered. Her voice was raw anguish. "From the branch above his treehouse. Nin^ years ago last Wednesday, on his birthday."

  I pulled in my breath. Last Wednesday was the day Miles Harwick had died. "I'm . . . sorry," I said inadequately. "I'm so .. . terribly sorry."

  Charles Scott's round face was gray. "If we'd gone to court, maybe Tad would've felt better. Maybe he thought we didn't believe him."

  "It was so hard on the other children," Anne Scott said. Her voice broke. "Kevin especially. He was just a year older than Tad. The two boys were so close."

  I started to speak, then sat back. There wasn't any point in asking about Kevin. I had heard more than enough to know why he would want to kill Miles Harwick, and why he had to break into the biology department and steal that incriminating blackmail letter. The only mystery left involved the clues pointing to Dottie—her hair and the rope. But Anne Scott was already on her feet.

  "Let me show you their pictures," she said. She stepped to the fireplace and took down a silver frame, then another. She

  handed the first to me. "This was taken at Rockport on a fishing trip," she said. Her voice trembled sHghtly. "Just look at them. Aren't they a pair?"

  The photo showed two boys standing on a dock in typical trophy pose. The smaller—a slight, dark-haired, dark-skinned boy with sharply tilted Oriental eyes and a proud smile—was holding up one end of a string of large brown flounders. The taller boy was holding the other end. The taller boy was Kevin. The photographer had caught the two boys looking at each other, rather than the camera. It was clear from their faces that they shared a special secret, a special love.

  "Yes, I see," I said slowly, puzzled by the younger boy's obviously Oriental features.

  "Kevin's a student at UT in Austin," Mrs. Scott said. "He's working on his biology degree." She held out the other photo. "And this is Tad with his sister, taken just before his piano recital. He was quite a musician, very talented." Her voice choked. "We were all proud of him."

  I looked at the photo. Tad, wearing white shirt, tie, and dark suit, was standing beside a grand piano. Behind him, both hands on his shoulders, stood a teenage girl, quite tall, her head a mop of curly red hair, her smile achingly familiar.

  Ruby's hair. Ruby's smile.

  The girl was Amy.

  I stared at the photo, uncomprehending. "Amy Roth is your daughter?"

  "You know our Amy?" Charles Scott asked, frowning.

  I handed the photo back, keeping my face hidden. I had just reaHzed that Amy's reason for wanting Harwick dead was exactly as powerful as Kevin's, and the knowledge was like an exploding missile in my stomach. "I've . . . met her," I said.

  Anne Scott returned the photos to the mantel, arranging them affectionately. "You're probably wondering about the last names," she said. "Roth was my first husband's name, Ellis Roth. He and I adopted Amy when she was a tiny baby, a newborn, really. He died when she was eight. Charlie and I got married two years later, and we adopted the boys. Amy always felt close to Ellis and wanted to keep his name." She smiled slightly. "Amy's like that. She cares —passionately. A couple of years ago she decided to find her birth mother. I didn't think it was such a good idea, but she wanted to do it so badly that I had to support her. Anyway, when Amy decides to do something, there's absolutely no stopping her."

  Charles Scott stood up. "I'm not sure I understand," he said. His voice had gone scratchy, like an antique thirty-three r.p.m. record, and his frown was colored with something—alarm? Ap-

  prehension? "How did you happen to meet our daughter, Ms. Bayles? She's not mixed up in this ... in Harwick's ... is she?" He stopped and started over. "How did you meet her?"

  I looked at him, reahzing that the same thing had occurred to him that had occurred to me. What he couldn't have guessed, and what I wasn't ready to tell him, was that Amy and her brother Kevin were both in this—together.

  I extricated myself from the Scotts, got back in my Datsun, and headed for 1-35. I had plenty to think about. The outline of events as I knew it, illuminated by what I had just learned from Kevin's and Amy's adoptive parents, seemed incontestably clear.

  At some point in the past year, motivated by hatred and their desire to avenge their brother's suicide. Amy and Kevin had tracked Miles Harwick to CTSU. At the beginning of the spring semester, Kevin—allowing his parents to assume that he was still going to school in Austin—had gotten a job in Harwick's animal holding facility. Kevin or Amy or both must have planned all along to kill Harwick on Tad's birthday, which was also the anniversary of his death. In the meantime, their blackmail letter was an inspired way of putting him on notice, an exquisite means of drawing out his agony. And the demonstrations Amy organized in the mall—especially the signs, like "Hang Harwick Instead"—must have been meant as a constant torture, a continual reminder to him of their threat.

  Had Harwick recognized Kevin and Amy as Tad's brother and sister? If he had, of course, there was very little he could do: to reveal their identities, to take their blackmail letter to the police, would only trigger their revelations of his culpability. He couldn't be criminally prosecuted because the only witness to his crime was dead. But he had plenty to lose if the story got into the

  newspapers. For the last several weeks of his life, he must have felt tortured, vulnerable, afraid—exactly like the animals in his experiments.

  Had he been driven to suicide by his fears? Or had Kevin and Amy killed him? I was no closer to an answer to that central question, although the break-in at the biology office now made sense. Even if they had played no active role in Harwick's death, they would be afraid that the letter would implicate them. When I told Amy that the letter had been found where it was, they decided to steal it. The only thing I still couldn't account for, either way, was the presence of Dottie's hair in the noose and the hangman's rope in her garage.

  I glanced at my watch. It was nearly eleven-thirty and Pecan Springs and lunch was only forty-five minutes away. But I needed to check in with Justine and Ruby, who was in New Braunfels looking for an elusive man with a greyhound who had something on Harwick. At the thought of Ruby and the pain that lay ahead for her, my stomach clenched like a fist. To lose a daughter for nearly twenty-five years, find her, and lose her again in this terrible way was too awful to even think about. />
  I took the Thousand Oaks exit, found a 7-Eleven, and bought a plastic-wrapped poor boy stuffed with something that was supposed to be turkey, swiss, and tomato. It tasted like damp Styro-foam seasoned with yellow paste. I used the public phone out front to call the shop, plugging one ear so I could hear over the din of the motorcycles and the eighteen-wheelers on the highway.

  Laurel answered and gave me a quick run-down on the morning. Thyme and Seasons had been so busy that she had called her sister to handle the Cave. I was glad I could count on Laurel. I couldn't imagine a more capable person to handle the shop while I was pinning a murder on Ruby's daughter. The thought was like a bullet.

  "Ruby called a couple of minutes ago," Laurel said. "She said

  to tell you that she's located the guy with the greyhound, whatever that means. She's supposed to meet him at his house, which is also his office or his business or something, at twelve-fifteen. She wants you to be there. She says she thinks the guy seriously wants to talk."

  "I suppose I can make it," I said unenthusiastically. Wanting to talk could mean that the guy actually knew something. Or that he was lonely and had nothing better to do. Joining Ruby for a dead-end conversation would only delay my getting back to Pecan Springs and setting in motion the processes that would bring the case to its inevitable sad conclusion. On the other hand, I had assigned her to track the guy. There'd be heartache enough for her as this thing wound down—and for me, too. One hour more or less wouldn't make much difference in the grand scheme of things. "Did she give you an address?" I asked.

  I took down the information Laurel gave me. "Any other calls?"

  "Yes, two," Laurel said. "Somebody named Beulah Bracewell wants you to call her at work."

  "Beulah?" I was curious. "What did she want?"

  "Didn't say, but here's her number," Laurel said, and gave it to me. "And Mike called to tell you that he's got the lease and wants you to sign it. He'll bring it to dinner." She paused significantly. "You actually found a house?"

  "Yeah," I said. "A big Victorian, off Limekiln Road." I was looking through my purse for Justine's phone number. She was next on my list of phone calls.

  "Hell," Laurel said. "That means I just lost twenty dollars."

  Having found Justine's card, I cleverly dropped it in a puddle from a spilled Coke can. "Twenty dollars?" I picked the card up by one corner and flapped it to get the Coke off it.

  "Yeah. I bet Ruby twenty that you'd never say yes to Mike. I figured that the two of you were like Nancy Drew and Ned

  What's-his-name. You'd just go on forever, never getting close enough to do more than kiss."

  "I didn't say yes to McQuaid," I said, irritable. "I said yes to a place to live so I can expand the shop so we won't fall all over one another trying to handle hordes of customers."

  Laurel gave a short laugh. "China, you are so full of shit. What are you afraid of? And it's still going to cost me twenty dollars, whatever you said yes to."

  "It's your own fault," I said heartlessly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to bet?"

  "If you don't hurry," Laurel said, "you'll be late for lunch."

  I came up empty on the other two phone calls. The Whiz was in a pretrial hearing and wouldn't be available until midafter-noon. Beulah's line was busy. I wasn't in any mood to wait. I'd call her from New Braunfels.

  44 4

  Like Pecan Springs, New Braunfels was founded by Germans, about six thousand of them, in the eighteen-forties. The settlement beside the Comal Springs was established by Prince Carl zu Solms-Braunfels, who named the place after his hometown. The local Indians—Lipon, Tonkawa, Karankawa, and Waco—were not too pleased to see the first oxcart-load of settlers show up on Good Friday, 1845. They made things pretty miserable for a while, but the Germans persevered. Their tradition still dominates the community, as you can see from the newspaper (the Herald-Zeitung), the names of local establishments (the Faust Hotel, Krause's Cafe, and the Schlitterbahn, a made-up German word that means "slippery road" and refers to the seventeen wa-terslides and seven inner-tube chutes in the water park). And the food. Wursts of every kind abound, and sauerkraut and sauer-braten and strudel and schnapps.

  The address I was looking for was off Seguin, on a street of

  shops and small businesses housed in remodeled, gentrified houses, some of which were also residences. The place turned out to be an office with a large wood-framed sign on the lawn that said "Jim Long Associates, MSA, CPA, CFE. Business * Individual * Tax Planning & Tax Returns * Accounting & Audit-ing."

  Ruby's Honda was parked across the street, and Ruby was sitting in it. When she saw me pull up, she got out of her car and came to my window. She was wearing a thirties costume: narrow black skirt that came almost to her ankles, long-sleeved hip-length white blouse with several strands of pearls, and black floppy-brimmed straw hat with a huge orange rose on it. The hair that showed under the hat was such a vibrant copper that it looked as if she had put on her hat to snuff out a blazing fire.

  I opened the door and got out, blinking. "What have you done to your hair?"

  She jammed her hat down on her head. "Is something wrong with it?"

  "It's very red." At the look on her face, I repented. "But on you, very red is good. Gives you a little extra whoomf." As if she needed it.

  "I hennaed it last night," she said. "With paprika and cinnamon."

  "You're kidding."

  "Scout's honor." She held up three fingers.

  I stood on tiptoes to sniff. "You're right. Definitely cinnamon. You smell like apple pie."

  "Next time I'm going to try nutmeg and allspice." She turned to glance over her shoulder. "I'm glad you got here," she added. "He says he's got something important to say. But I get the feeling he's afraid to incriminate himself. I think he wants us to help him cut a deal."

  "He who?" Ruby has a way of beginning in the middle, leaving me fishing for loose ends.

  "Jim Long. He used to work in the grant accounting office at CTSU." She motioned with her head. "Come on. He knows we're here. I saw him peeking out the window a minute ago."

  I locked the car. "Hold on a sec," I said. I've always hated going into an interview blind. "Give me some background."

  "I phoned my friend who knows about greyhounds," Ruby said patiently. "When I mentioned New Braunfels, she knew right away who I was looking for. The guy adopted two greyhounds through their placement program—dogs retired from the racetrack."

  "Good work," I said. "V.I. Warshawski would be proud of you. So you phoned Jim Long."

  She nodded. "I said I was working for Justine Wyzinski on behalf of Dr. Dorothy Riddle, digging up background information regarding the unfortunate demise of Dr. Miles Harwick blah blah. I said it had come to our attention that he and Dr. Harwick had dealings some years ago blah blah and did he have any ideas regarding Dr. Harwick's passing."

  The blind at the front window twitched. Someone was looking out. "And Long said?"

  "He said he'd been waiting for somebody to get in touch with him and he didn't know why it hadn't happened sooner. He sounded like he had a cork in him and he was about ready to pop." She looked down at me, squinting. Even in her flats. Ruby is head and shoulders above me. "But he said he couldn't talk to us without getting something in return. Like maybe he was angling for immunity."

  "Only the DA. can give him that," I said. "Anyway, we don't know whether he's actually got anything worth trading." I didn't want to tell her that we were beating a dead horse, that Harwick's murder had already been solved, and that her long-lost daughter and her daughter's stepbrother were implicated. I straightened up. "But we won't know whether he's got anything

  important or not until we've talked to him. Let's go hear what he has to say."

  The front door displayed a "Welcome—Come In" sign. It opened onto a small reception area that was supposed to look like a garden room, with a white tile floor, green rugs, and green-and-white bamboo wallcovering. The cushions on the white wicker chairs and
loveseat were covered with a matching bamboo print, and large potted plants were placed strategically in the corners and on the tables. A receptionist's desk was empty, but the wall behind it was crowded with framed diplomas and numerous certificates attesting to the competence and professional training of James L. Long and two associates. I noticed that the business had earned a Chamber of Commerce citation for assisting with the Christmas Fund Drive and a Friends of the River certificate for picking up litter along the Comal River. Jim Long was obviously an upstanding citizen of the New Braunfels community.

  The door to my right was open, and I could see a man in a brown sports jacket and white shirt hunched over a computer printout. When he saw us, he stood up, straightened his tie, and came to the office door.

  "Hi," he said, as if he were surprised. "Didn't see you come up the walk." He stepped forward and thrust out his hand with a heartiness that barely disguised the underlying anxiety. "Name's Jim Long. Something I can help you ladies with?"

  "I'm the one who called, Mr. Long," Ruby said. "About Miles Harwick." She introduced herself and me.

  "Oh, yeah, sure," he said. Studiedly casual, he went to the front door, flipped the lock, and switched the sign to the "Closed for Lunch" side. "No point in being interrupted by walk-ins," he said, and led us into his office. "Have a seat." He gestured at two straight chairs in front of his desk and closed the office door, too. Whatever Jim Long had to say, he didn't want it overheard.

  The waiting-area garden theme was only minimally extended

  to the small office we had entered: a faded jade plant sat on a stand in the corner, its leaves pale green and shriveled. The desk was empty except for the computer printout, an engraved citation from the Lion's Club for "Honesty and Integrity," and a gold-framed studio photograph of a blond, sweet-faced woman and three small girls in white dresses, triplets from the look of them, posed in front of a drape with a gold cross on it. Beside the desk was a computer and a calculator and a plaster-of-Paris plaque bearing the impression of three small hands. The file cabinet in the corner was topped with a papier-mache sculpture painted in awful shades of grape and green, obviously the earnest work of the small hands in the plaque, and several children's drawings were taped to the wall. Jim Long was the most family-oriented accountant I'd ever met.